Emm was no longer up to attending balls, and given the state of affairs between George and Aunt Agatha, she’d asked Aunt Dottie to play chaperone. Living in Bath as she did, Dottie rarely got to attend large and fashionable London balls and had been looking forward all week to donning a pretty new ball dress and catching up with old friends. There was also a certain perceptible glee in her demeanor at being asked to play chaperone instead of her older sister.

George wasn’t going to break her word to Emm—not technically, anyway—nor ruin Aunt Dottie’s night. Nor Penny’s birthday, or Lady Peplowe’s ball. But she sure as anything planned to ruin Lord Towsett’s evening.

She’d come up with a Plan.

She would teach him that when she said no she meant it. She wouldn’t hit or kick him, and though there would certainly be a scene, inside the dark conservatory it would be perfectly, beautifully private.

She glanced down at the bucket of fishy-smelling sludgy liquid that Lord Peplowe kept for fertilizing his beloved plants. Her promise to Emm had made no mention of accidents with smelly buckets . . .

If Lord Towsett called her a naughty little puss one more time—and he would, oh, yes, he would . . .

She grinned to herself. She had a short, scathing speech of her own to deliver, to be punctuated with the contents of the bucket. Afterward she would show him to the back gate where he could make a discreet, reeking, squelching exit.

He’d never bother her again.

Fanning herself gently with a fern frond, she waited. It was a warm night; the air inside the conservatory was humid and the smell of the bucket . . . She wrinkled her nose. Covering the bucket with a large shallow saucer, she moved it onto a shelf closer to the doorway. It was better there, more conveniently to hand.

She moved back to where the smell wasn’t so bad. And waited. What was taking him so long? She was sure he’d seen her come in.

The conservatory door opened. Aha! George peered through the shadowy tangle of greenery. Was that him? He was just a dark silhouette, outlined against the bright globes of lantern light that illuminated the garden outside where Lady Peplowe’s servants had hung dozens of pretty Japanese-style lanterns.

The silhouette moved and she cursed under her breath. It wasn’t Lord Towsett after all. This man was taller, leaner, broader shouldered.

She edged farther back into the shadows. She didn’t want to be caught lurking in here by some stranger.

Slow, heavy footsteps came toward her, crunching over the crushed limestone that covered the conservatory floor.

George held her breath.

She jumped as the door burst open, and three ladies tumbled in, laughing. One called out, “Such a delightful tease you are, Hart.”